I wrote the following Last Windrow in 1989. The column was dedicated to a small creek that flowed through my Uncle Reed Richardson’s farm. A quiet little stream that only misbehaved in the spring of the year or perhaps when a “gully-washer” rainstorm pass over the countryside.

It was a favorite place of mine and still resides deep in the cells of my brain. So, I offer it to you again in this “Classic” Last Windrow.

Richardson’s Creek

With Labor Day over and the end of summer near, I’ve been thinking of a small creek where I used to spend a lot of my time. It was a tributary of the Little Sioux River and was called the West Fork of the West Branch of the Little Sioux River.

We called it Richardson’s Creek, named after my uncle’s family who farmed its banks.

I caught my first fish there, while in the company of my Grandfather John and my Dad Clyde. I don’t remember much about that trip, but my dad tells me that I wanted to take the fish to bed with me that night. He had to pry it from my fingers.

The following verse is dedicated to all those little streams throughout the country that have added to a boy’s growing up years.